Before
by aquariusyoi
Summary: Before they were nations, who were they? Rated T for suicide, mentions of rape, self-harm, alcoholism, death and all other triggers.
1. P(ills)asta!

**North Italy: P(ills)asta!**

The water in the canals reflected the sunlight as Feliciano Vargas smiled and waved his friend goodbye.

"Ciao! See you tomorrow!"

"Bye Feli!"

The Italian 12 year old turned, smile disappearing as soon as the shadows hid his face.

The sunlight beat down, wind caressing his cheek, white fluffy clouds soaring above.

Everything was swell and fine.

Except for our protagonist, who walked on the wooden planks of Venice, heading to the house his mother had left him.

The day was the second of July, his birthday.

Celebrate! Yes, he did, he celebrated his birthday.

Before his mother had fell into the canal from the second floor from the house, leaving the then seven year old boy alone.

His father was frequently out on business, and when he heard the news, all he did was to give the wailing boy a comforting pat on the back and some awkward words of condolence.

It was sunny, like this day. The wind was soft, like this day. The clouds were white and fluffy, like this day.

And he saw a dark figure fall by his window, heard the "splash" as her body made contact with the water.

He opened the door to the house.

It was dark, like always. He always shut the blinds when he went out.

Setting his schoolbag down on the couch, he called out a "I'm home" and went to the kitchen, where the pots and pans and forks and spoons and plates and bowls were covered in a thin layer of dust.

He considered making some pasta, the dish that cheered him up without fail when he was seven.

Note: when he was seven.

Now, nothing seemed to cheer him up.

"Your happiness is so contagious, Feli," she said when combing his hair, the six year old sitting in her lap.

She had a smile on her face as she said that, and his father that had came back that week, too.

He noticed his classmates and teachers smiled too, when he was happy.

So, he told himself that he was going to smile, for his momma, for his pappa, for his classmates and teachers, for the world.

He hadn't went back once, and he smiled always, infecting those around him with happiness and smiles.

He smiled for others, laughed for others, but not for himself.

Once alone, everything went monochrome again.

Feeling tired (the clock ticked three in the afternoon) and hungry, he looked around the small kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, in search of something quick.

A box of biscuits, so new the plastic covering was still intact caught his eye.

He struggled to tear the plastic off, and after a few minutes, gave up and looked for a pair of scissors to cut it open.

As his fingers brushed by the pair of scissors in a drawer, he saw a bottle of ibuprofen, also so new the cap was still intact and not yet screwed open.

Now, he hadn't not considered it before. The balcony and water was good enough, going how his mother went. The knives in the kitchen were clean and sharp, reflecting light like water did. The house always had some good, sturdy, thick rope just in case something happened.

The bottle of ibuprofen lay silently, as the boy gazed at it.

On some instinct, he grabbed it and twisted it, fetched a cup of water and ran up to his room.

63... 64... 65.

He counted the pills in the bottle, lining them up neatly on the bedside table.

65 of them. He made it his mission to swallow the small pills one by one, sipping the water and counting.

He continued (48) even when the water ran out, swallowing them dry, ignoring the queer constricting feeling in his throat when he swallowed.

Finishing the sixty fifth of them, he took a piece of paper and a pen and thought of all the things he could write, all of the goodbyes and thank yous and I'm sorrys.

He thought of everything, from Dante to Giacomo to Pirandello to Ludovico.

He could write a lot, a lot of words, telling the story of who he was and how he came to be and all that.

Nothing, however came.

In the end, the pen pressed against the paper, eager to dance, wrote just a phrase, two words and seven alphabets (and one punctuation mark), in his elegant penmanship, swooping and curves, a _'I'm sorry'. _

His classmates would be the first to worry, telling the teachers that "Feli hasn't come to school for a week!", and his teachers would telegraph his father out at sea, expressing worry, and his father would come back home to find Feliciano Vargas in bed, empty bottle of pills and empty glass to his body void of life, and a phrase, two words, seven alphabets (and one punctuation mark) next to a pen.

Feeling sleep snatching at him with its hands of dreams and darkness, he let them pull at him, dragging him into a deep, deep sleep.

\--

Italy Veneziano had always been happy, smiling at other countries with closed eyes. Even if they were enemies, the other countries couldn't help but smile back at him, wondering why he was so happy and what did he see beneath those closed eyes.

And in Venice, a dark figure fell, splashing the water of the many canals of Venice.

\--

Sooooo I should be working on Colonies and Hogwarts but the plot's come to a standstill and I thought of this so here you are.

I'll be starting with the Axis, then the Allies, then the Nordics and so on, so feel free to suggest ideas!

See you!


	2. Red Like Tomatoes

**South Italy: Red Like Tomatoes**

The Italian cursed, falling off the ladder and landing hard.

He was clumsy, always tripping and falling and making a fool out of himself. Chorea took away most of his coordination and gave him seizures, as if it made up for what it took.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, his parents were killed when they were involved in the local Mafia's turf wars.

And now, he was alone.

But no matter! The tomato plants in the back garden were his friends and gave deliciously sweet and sour red tomatoes for him!

He liked books and artifacts, mostly of war and gardening and strategies and fiction.

The twenty six alphabets spun out an epic, sucking him in like a black hole.

He loved it.

He hated people, as they jeered and pushed at him, too loud, too loud, _too loud. _

But he had to deal with them everyday, or at least the weekends (when it was a holiday and he had to go out for groceries), so he developed a strategy to keep the nosy and noisy bastards out of his personal space.

He pushed them away, creating a personality that didn't give a duck about other people and successfully kept them away from him.

So far, it had worked. The sickly brat wasn't a good choice to hang out with, after all.

But then he was lonely, again. Shunned by society and himself.

The tomatoes were ripe today, large red globules shining between large green leaves.

He was planning to pick them after he got the goddamned book (Lord of the... he couldn't remember. Yeah. Whatever), then eat lunch.

Finally, he had the book in his hands and put it on the table and went out to pick tomatoes.

The sun shone brightly, shining down on his garden and accentuating the red beneath the green.

Such good weather. No clouds in sight (they had all went over to the north) and little wind, gently blowing at the trees, making the branches and leaves rustle, yet not so that his hair was messed up.

The tomato plants were set on a trellis, the wooden structure making them so as not to fall over.

The leaves were green, a shade slightly darker than Lovino Vargas' eyes.

The tomatoes were red, a shade similar to the blood running in his veins and arteries.

Humming softly as he gently picked the tomatoes, he felt pain in his fingertips, hissing and drawing away his hand.

A bead of blood was visible, evidently caused by the splinter in the skin. He went back to get the splinter out and wash his hands. It was nearing lunchtime anyway.

Placing the basket of tomatoes on the same table as his book, he made a beeline to the kitchen sink and took a pair of tweezers to pull it out.

It wasn't new, these kinds of wounds. It was what happened when you use a wooden trellis older than you.

Patting his rinsed hands on a dry towel, he glanced around the kitchen, wondering what to cook.

Except for the tomatoes, he had nothing.

He groaned. He had to go out to buy food, after all. And it had been such a good day.

The knives on the rack glinted, catching his eye.

Subconsciously, he reached for one of them.

It was the first time he had used a kitchen knife like that. Before that, he had used box cutters.

He didn't know why he liked it or how it started. He supposed it started on the first anniversary of his parents' deaths, as everything came crashing down and in a moment of non-comprehension, he snatched up a box cutter, and, well, the rest was history.

It felt good as it slipped over his skin, he drawing a picture of his loneliness and despair and directing the pain in his heart to pain in his skin.

The blood that came seeping out was as red as his precious tomatoes that was by the table, ruby red and staining his sleeved shirt crimson red.

And god, it felt so _good. _It was painful when he started, yes, but he got used to the pain. When you experience enough of pain, you get used to it.

Suddenly, his hand jerked. Another seizure again, this time making his hand flick and seize up.

He could only watch as the blade buried itself in his forearm, and all he felt was pain, pain, _pain. _

Having pierced an artery, the blade was instantly coated in blood red, the air around smelling of iron.

Blood gushed out, trickling down his forearm, dripping onto the kitchen floor he had cleaned the last night. All for naught, then. It wasn't as if he cleaned particularly well, but he managed.

It was a horrific sight, seeing blood going out of your body so fast, and being helpless.

He didn't call the emergency line. His pride wouldn't allow it, proclaiming to the world that he, Lovino Vargas, the kid that acted all high and mighty, like a jerk, _cut _and nearly died of it.

Oh no, no.

He would bleed to death here, alone, since that was what he were and was meant to be.

Alone.

\--

Italy Romano insulted anyone who came close to him and his _fratellino_. Bastards, the lot of them.

He pushed everyone away, the tomato (he liked tomatoes, but no matter) axe-wielding pirate bastard, the potato bastard brothers, the perverted wine bastard and even his brother (not so bad, though).

Nations were meant to be alone, and friends backstab.

\--

I did not expect to write a chapter like this. Originally, I wanted to write where Roma was a stillborn, but seeing as it was quite similar to a book on Wattpad (Hetalia Deaths, where I got inspiration) I decided not to.

I have no idea why I used so many words in describing Spain.

Eh.

See you!


	3. Moonlight Marriage

**Japan: ****Moonlight Marriage**

The Japanese man paced in the large, traditional garden.

He was to be wed the next day, and he was to meet his soon to be wife at dawn.

For the first time.

He couldn't sleep. The moon high up in the sky gazed down at him, pearly white.

He was told by his parents, his friends, his (soon to be) parents in law how beautiful she was, how the sun shone on her long, beautiful hair, how her skin was as pale as newly fallen snow, how gentle she was, how good a wife she would be.

He was a very lucky man indeed, lucky to be wedded to such a _perfect _woman.

But all he could feel was nervousness and dread.

He didn't want to marry. Sure, he needed to, but he wasn't ready, not just yet.

He wanted a marriage of love, not a marriage of convenience and business.

It took him a long time to warm up to people, and he had few friends.

He needed time to himself, space to himself. His friends knew that, and he worried that his soon to be wife was too clingy, too intimate with him right off the bat.

It wasn't as if he could do anything, though.

Hearing footsteps outside, he quickly retired to bed and lay there, eyes open and unblinking, not sleeping.

Hearing footsteps recede, he got up again and stared at the wall opposite.

There hung a blade, a tanto blade, sheathed.

He got up and plucked it gently off the wall.

The blade was a gift from his father to him, a gift that boys received upon entering manhood.

It was not to be drawn unless the man was to commit the act of disemboweling oneself, or seppuku.

It was supposedly an act of honour, one that a warrior did when they had to.

He wasn't a warrior, but as a man, he was supposed to protect. He supposed that it was being a warrior.

Committing suicide was dishonourable, which contradicted the purpose yet served its purpose.

It was complicated.

The blade had a simple, unadorned sheath made of cherry wood, with red tassels hanging on the butt of the handle.

Stepping back into the garden, he drew the sword with a clean "shink".

The blade was iron and straight and cold and sharp. It glinted under the moonlight.

Would he do it? He had already drawn the sword. All there was left was to do the deed.

The garden was large and beautiful, as he was the only son and his family was wealthy.

It was a small bamboo grove, with a small space cleared out, paved with smooth wooden planks. There was a pool, with koi fish swimming inside, unaware of what their owner would do the night.

It was a beautiful place, but it was also where his blood would stain the beautifulness and dirty it.

He couldn't have chose a worse place. He couldn't have chose a better place.

Kneeling on the wooden planks, his knees digging painfully into the wood, he stared at the blade.

He was scared. Scared of death.

He laughed at himself for being a coward. His wife tomorrow would be let down, his family dishonoured by his deed, so why was he such a coward?

It was the only way he could save the daughter of the other family from an unhappy marriage with him.

Opening the front of his robe, he placed the blade by the side of his abdomen.

It was cold. The cold iron blade pressed by his abdomen.

Shivering, he quickly slashed his side open, blood immediately flowing out.

It was _so painful. _

Well, cutting yourself open always was.

Drawing in a deep breath, he followed the middle of his chest, slashing upwards, before withdrawing the blade and setting it on the side.

Proper seppuku had an assistant nearby, to lop of the head after the stomach cutting was finished.

He hadn't, but it should do.

Breathing heavily (_pain_), he gazed up at the full moon.

The wooden planks were stained dark crimson, the bare ground drinking in the redness.

The moon itself was a shade of orange-red, akin to sunset, gazing down on the body who stained it red.

\--

The nation of Japan had always been a bit shy. Or according to him, "in need of personal space".

He was also slightly eccentric.

If there was one thing he loved other than rice and sake and anime, it was the moon, especially during full lunar eclipses.

It wasn't really interesting to him, he just liked it. Seeing the pearl turning to a fireball was euphoric to him.

China met him in the bamboo grove where he had found him once, gazing at the shadow eating away at the white of the moon.

Nobody knew why.

\--

Japan's chapter was quite hard to write, to be honest. I'm not really well-versed in his culture (is that even counted as culture? I don't know) so I pulled up Wikipedia and you get this.

I feel like I describe more surroundings than people? I don't know, just a quirk I realized during writing this.

See you!


	4. Bang

**Germany: Bang**

He didn't really remember how he got here. All he knew was that a bullet was flying towards him, right in his chest with a huge BANG.

That probably was what got him in here.

Yeah, it was. His upper torso was bare, save for the bandage that was wrapped around his chest.

He looked around. The walls were white, the bedsheets were white, the floor was white, the ceiling was white, heck, even his clothes were white and pristine and just a blinding _white _and the smell of disinfectant was floating in the air.

In short, hospitals were white disinfectant bottles with people milling inside.

Who were these people anyway?

Who was he anyway?

Uh.

Who was he? What was his name?

He was called... he didn't know.

Fuck.

The door was flung open, revealing more white. White with almost neon red eyes that stood out, contrasted so much with the white of the walls and his as white as the walls skin.

"Luddy! I heard you were shot! Who was that motherfucker that wanted to kill you?! I bet it's that fucker Louis, wasn't it?"

"Uh... do I know you?"

The albino's face fell, staring at him in such a manner that he began to worry. Like he had received the news that he was going to die in the next hour. He hoped not.

The man leaned forward, face serious, in contrast to his previous expression that

"Ludwig. Don't joke. Tell me, who am I?"

"I... don't know you. Sorry."

His face became even more pain-stricken, if it was possible.

"No. It's okay, Ludwig. I'm... I'm just going to leave. Get some fresh air and all, right?" his face brightened as he said, though he could clearly see that he was supressing the dark clouds inside the sun.

"Ah. Goodbye. See you again."

He could only say these words of farewell robotically, watching the albino leave, gently closing the door, unlike his rather sudden and loud entrance.

So his name was Ludwig.

Who was the man? Based on the interaction, the most he could gleam was that he was very close to him. Either a close friend or family member, he guessed.

The door opened again, bringing make white in the shape of medical robes.

"Ah. I see you're awake. Gilbert has talked to me about your... condition. How do you feel?"

It was the basic greeting of a doctor, one who had seen a lot of lives and deaths and who still hung on to the hope that something, a miracle, might happen to this new patient, but barely.

Just barely.

"Gilbert?" he tried out, rolling the name around his mouth, trying - _goddamnit - _to remember who was that, his relation to him.

Had he broke his heart by saying that he didn't know him? Was Ludwig expecting that he remembered him?

Nothing came up.

"Yes, Gilbert. Your older brother."

Oh.

So he was a family member, then. One very close, if he were to base on his nickname.

"I'll tell you about it later, eh? Get some rest and I'll tell you about your condition."

The doctor swept out, closing the white door behind him.

When he was gone, he could only stare at the wall opposite his bed.

He was named Ludwig. He had an older brother named Gilbert, the albino who barged in just little over fifteen minutes ago. He had amnesia. He probably was assaulted by someone named Louis. By a gun.

This world was just so fucked up.

Slipping into sleep, his eyes rested against darkness and his brain against the realm of Morpheus.

When he woke up, he was pretty sure something bad must've happened. Nurses were rushing around, clearly panicked, the machines were beep-beep-beeping, something bad must have happened.

A few moments later, it all calmed down and the staff heaved a sigh.

He slept again.

This time, it wasn't a pleasant non-dream. He remembered shots, loud, bang-bang-bang, the smell of gunpowder on his hands, blood and dust and dirt, burning fuel and an overcast sky.

Had he been a soldier? Had he extinguished lives shot down, cut down innocent lives in the name of justice? This Ludwig, was it good or bad? Were his hands stained with lives that he couldn't bother to remember?

It changed again, this time a mosaic of memories. He saw flashes of his own life, with silhouettes of friends and family, laughing together, drinking together, crying together.

It was a good change from the previous, but it still hurt.

How many did he leave? Why, oh why, couldn't he remember them?

He slept for a very long time. So long, indeed, he saw the doctor declaring that he had become aa vegetable, forever in a coma unless some miracle happened.

He saw Gilbert there, holding back tears in his eyes. He saw another person there, an Italian, sobbing. He saw another Italian, presumably the previous Italian's brother, staring ahead, stoic. There was another Japanese there, staring at the doctor, seemingly not believing him.

He wanted to tell them, he wasn't. Look, he was up and awake! But try as he could, nothing came out. His body felt heavy, so heavy.

It dragged him down, down, down into the endless abyss.

He didn't know when he was lost in it, when his heart stopped beating, when the doctor gently put him into a body bag, when Gilbert, the two Italians, the Japanese finally cried, when the funeral was arranged.

He could only remember a bang.

\--

Germany had never been proud of his past. He didn't like killing. He didn't like the sound of shells and bullets and anything that let out a loud bang. He didn't like his hands stained with blood and lives.

But he did all that.

After all, a good soldier was supposed to obey commands from his higher-ups.

He couldn't remember anything before a point in his life. All he did was a small maid girl with a push broom.

\--

Y'know, I kinda like the "Germany is HRE" theory.

How does a beta work? I'd like to have a beta for my stories, but I don't know how the whole system works.

See you!


	5. Amber

**Prussia: Amber**

The beer fizzed as it was poured into the mug, bubbles floating above to create a thick layer of foam.

Gilbert liked that. He liked that amber liquid, the white foam above. He liked that feeling of it going down his throat, bubbling and fizzing and warming him up. He liked how he could forget his and other's sins in it.

The bar was a loud one, with young people feverishly dancing in the middle, kissing and grinding and doing all sorts of unmentionables, teenagers that didn't even look seventeen drinking and causing a ruckus that would eventually lead to a brawl, the smell of alcohol and lust in the air and racks and racks of beer and vodka and scotch and whisky and wine.

"Another one," he said, slamming the now empty beer mug onto the bartop.

The bartender glanced over. What was his name again? Tom? Harry? Ben? Whatever. All he needed was the sweet, sweet amber liquid that he poured for him.

"Are you sure? That's your sixth drink already, and it's in a large size."

"Do you want pay or not?"

He hesitated, but nodded and turned to get another bottle of beer for him.

Good. Gilbert didn't like those who dilly-dallied around.

Pouring him another mug of beer, the bartender looked nervous and reminded him to not dridrink so much, so fast.

He gave him a glare, to which he shrunk back, and told him to mind his own business.

He picked up the mug and began to drink again, foam coating his upper lip.

He liked to forget things that had happened before he stepped into the bar, the taunts and jeers of his snow-white hair and skin and crimson red eyes.

He had been called a demon by other kids when he was little, always alone at the sand pitch. Even his parents were disgusted with him, always giving excuses to not fetch him from school, leaving him alone at home when they went in vacations.

Even now, he still got looked down at. The most he got in his job was minimum pay, no matter how much he worked.

He liked beer, liked the pleasure it gave him, how it never left him, how it let him forget the scars and bruises and scratches and wounds.

He frowned, looking blearily into his wallet, seeing that he had just enough money to pay for the drinks he had consumed. Another would be too much for his wallet.

He set down the mug with some drunken force, earning a loud bang, paid for them and left.

His vision swam as he leaned against the grubby walls of the bar, stumbling to stand. Had he drank too much? Nah. You can drink too much of beer.

Finally opening the door, the cool night air restoring some soberness into him, he weakly waved for a cab.

Nothing came. It was one in the morning, and cabs didn't frequent this area.

He felt his airway constricting, skin cold and clammy and sweating. Spots danced in his eyes like the young people back at the bar he left.

The stars bored down on him, blinking and trying to comprehend this albino stumbling around the street, wondering why he just couldn't stand straight.

He felt a wave of nausea coming up his throat, quickly turning and vomiting on the curb.

Alright. Maybe he had one too many. He would have a killer hangover in the morning, but he would manage.

He just needed to get back home.

Actually, there was nothing to go back to.

The only one waiting for him back home was his grandpa, who he was sure that Alzheimer's was slowly swallowing whole and probably didn't remember him already.

There was no one to go back home to. Not a single one.

But he needed sleep, and it wasn't really a good idea to sleep on the streets when it was ten degrees under zero.

And he felt so cold. So, so cold. It was eating away at his bones, chilling him right to the core and freezing his lungs.

He couldn't breathe. No, no, no.

Breathe.

He choked on the air entering him, bitter bile coming up yet again and he heaved on the sidewalk.

Something dark was in the remains of his stomach.

Under the glare of the streetlight, he made out red, dark red.

Oh god.

He suddenly sobered up.

It was blood.

Blood.

He could feel his heart thumping at a much slower pace in his chest, even at the sight of him vomiting up blood.

Was he going to die?

Alone, in the streets?

Yes, it would be fitting for an outcast like him.

He didn't want to die. Nobody wants to die.

But sadly, fate does not operate on who wants what.

His vision darkened, and he


	6. Insane

**England: ****Insane**

The cold air of the room - no, _cell _\- was what woke him.

Briefly, he looked around his cell, trying to decipher where he was.

It hadn't changed at all. Pity.

Gray walls - previously white - were still gray, the bars were still cold and unyielding, he was still chained to the wall.

Wonderful.

What had they called it? Something about sleep... ah, yes. Deep sleep therapy.

A few days back, he had been brought (more like dragged) to a room where a man clad in white was waiting, large syringe in hand. His doctor had spoken to him in a condescending tone (he was insane, the lowest of low) that it was a new form of therapy, one that put you into a deep sleep for days to cure your madness, not like you would understand.

He understood very well. But he couldn't understand why putting someone in deep sleep cures mental ailments. But he did need sleep, so he went along with it. It wasn't like he could refuse.

An injection and a week of sleep later, he was back in the world of the sane and insane.

Somehow the doctor knew that he was awake, as he appeared by the door of his room.

Flying Mint Bunny shooed him away, but he didn't go. Nobody else saw her. She told him that he was chosen to see magical beings, and that he was special.

The faeries fluttered, trying to block him from the doctor's view. He appreciated the help, but it didn't work.

The doctor came to his side in a few long strides. The room wasn't really big.

"Arthur. I see that you have woken up."

He wanted to roll his eyes. No, he was still sleeping, and he could see through his eyelids.

What a useless statement.

The doctor continued, "I have recently been enlightened by a friend of a new treatment for your madness. It is called shock therapy ."

He pronounced the word carefully, one syllable at a time, as if he was speaking to a child.

"It involves passing small currents of electricity through you brain, triggering seizures. It has been shown to reverse certain... conditions."

Minty covered her mouth in shock, concealing her gasp. Arthur Kirkland blinked.

Wouldn't that kill a person?

The doctor, sensing his incomprehension (retardation of the mad, he supposed), sighed and shook his head.

"Never mind. Explaining things like that to you dimwits isn't worth my time. I have to bring you to the treatment room now."

He took hold of his chains - he was thankful it wasn't his hair, that had really hurt - and forcefully pulled him down the corridor, down the stairs of the insane asylum.

Pushing him onto the bed (or table? They were of the same hardness), he saw a lot more people in white standing around, looking at him. He could catch snippets of "I hope this suceeds" and "good luck, doctor" going around.

He could only hope that the doctor had performed at least one that didn't cause death.

He had no time to think, however, as something cold was forced into his mouth and his arms and legs were tied to the operation table.

Two things (they induced electricity, he supposed) were put on his temples.

No anesthesia. It was a luxury that he certainly didn't deserve or have.

A shock ran through his head.

Pain was all he felt, all he was.

A scream ripped itself out of him, blood-curdling and high.

It was _so painful_. So, so, painful.

He fell into a deep, deep sleep akin to his week of sleep later.

When he woke up, nothing was normal anymore.

His vision was crammed with bright light, increasing in intensity as he moved his head. Minty and the faeries were nowhere to be seen.

Did they leave him?

The events that led up to the day were blurry and obscure. Which treatment had he had? Why was he like this?

He felt insecure, now that his friends weren't there.

The door opened with a loud "creak" and he felt his headache spike.

Someone in white came in. Who was he? He racked his brain, coming up with nothing.

"It seems that your treatment was successful! We'll do it again in two days for maximum results."

What treatment?

The person in white left the room, not answering his question.

Two days later, he was brought to a familiar yet foreign room.

The procedures were familiar yet foreign.

He didn't struggle. He knew that no matter how much he did, it wouldn't matter and he would be subjected to worse. He knew that much from the two days.

A shock ran through his body.

A scream.

Then the world faded to black, and he knew no more.

\--

England talked to magical creatures. Flying Mint Bunny was one of his favourites, and the faeries too.

The other nations constantly teased him about it, but he didn't care. It wasn't like they were chosen.

\--

I did an hour of research about this on Wikipedia, so it's probably very inaccurate.

Shock therapy was invented in Italy by 1938. It is also known as electroconvulsive therapy and was used to treat mental illness such as schizophrenia.

I briefly considered lobotomy, but I didn't have enough understanding of it so I scrapped the idea.

Please RR!

See you!


	7. Cold Sex

**France: Cold Sex**

Francis Bonnefoy walked down the streets of Paris on a night shadowed with gray clouds and the moon in hiding.

He was working overtime those nights, as he was ankle deep in debt. The French chef didn't earn a lot, just barely enough to keep him from being kicked out in the streets by his landlord.

Somehow, he had found himself in debt, not by a lot, but it was quite a large sum for him.

That was why he worked in the small kitchen of a local eatery till it was nearly dawn. The owner had taken pity on him, letting him go earlier the night, as he could see the purple shadows under his eyes and unshaved stubble on his chin.

He turned the corner and found himself lost after a few moments of wandering. He had taken the wrong turn, and he had ended up in one of the more unsavoury streets of Paris.

He walked straight on, hoping to find somebody to direct him out.

Soon, he came onto a large man sitting on the sidewalk. He asked him for directions out of the alley.

The large man gave him a once-over, earning a shudder from the chef. That look was predatory, and he didn't trust him at all. But he needed to go back home.

"Ah. You are lost."

"Yes. Could Monsieur direct me out?"

"...Yes. Yes, I think I can."

Something told him to run, to get away from this person.

He didn't listen. It was probably only his nerves, anyway.

The man led him further down the dark alley, zigzagging through rubbish bins and piles of insect-infested garbage. He wrinkled his nose at that.

Finally, he came to a small door by the side of a shabby building. He pushed him in.

By now, Francis knew that the man did not have good intentions. He regretted not listening to his gut feeling earlier.

But regretting doesn't change anything.

A dark chuckle sounded behind him, from the man who pushed him in the door.

He spun around, reaching for the doorknob to just get out.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him up, up into the air.

He screamed, but the man just laughed.

"Foolish man."

"What are you going to do to me?!"

Another dark chuckle.

"Why, of course fuck you."

He shrank back at the callousness of his words.

Have sex with him?

No, no. This was not at all sex. Sex was supposed to be loving, both consenting to it.

This wasn't either.

He refused, but to no avail.

The chef's pristine uniform was tore away from him, and everything else.

Half and hour later, he was thrown out, naked in the dirty ally that buzzed with flies and crawled with maggots.

Having satisfied his perverse pleasures, the man was nowhere to be seen, presumably having left through another door.

He lay all alone in the dark street, his lower body stinging.

He felt so broken. This night, he had been broken, shattered to pieces by an unknown man.

He lay in the street for who knows how long. The cold of the Parisian winter ate into his bones, courtesy of being naked, lying on the stones of the street.

He couldn't go back home. He couldn't let anyone see him like that.

But he was so cold.

He stared up at the gray sky, knowing that he couldn't go anywhere for the time being until someone found him.

Nobody went down that street.

It was snowing now, large snowflakes floating down, melting when they touched his skin.

He shivered.

Attempting to call for help, he opened his mouth, but he found his words slurring together, too cold to form coherent sentences.

It was so cold, oh so cold. He tried to stand, but his legs gave way under him, his breathing was shallow and he fell to the snow.

Soon, darkness took over and he found himself wandering in the darkness of his mind.

And the shallow breath stopped.

\--

France was the country of love, not lust. Why couldn't the others just understand that?

One thing about France was that he could cook very well. Even England (grudgingly) admitted that he cooked good food.

For that, he was happy.

\--

This chapter was kind of short and dark, rape and all. And yes, I know that Paris isn't very cold in the winter for you polar bears, but any temperature below 22C is way too cold, thank you very much.

See you!


	8. Happy Birthday

**Canada: Happy Birthday**

Maybe it was just the winter, or of his lack of body fat, that he felt cold under three layers of clothes.

He huddled in the corner of the street, trying to preserve whatever body heat was left of him.

Cold seeped through layers and layers of rather worn clothing. He shivered, retreating further back into the corner.

The Canadian had just turned eighteen, but it hadn't been a happy birthday for him.

Turning eighteen meant that he couldn't stay in the welfare home any more, that he was kicked out and expected to survive by himself.

Matthew Williams had come from an abusive family. A kind-hearted welfare worker had found him outside in the snow when he was fourteen, locked out of the house as a punishment for dropping a glass, hands shaking with hunger and bruises and cuts.

But it had been a crime that warranted being yelled at and beaten, left out in the winter of Canada.

He had brought him to the welfare home, where it was warm and he wasn't beaten and he was happy.

Sure, they forgot to feed him a few times, but it was mostly because he was so small for his age and so quiet they didn't notice him amongst his louder peers.

He didn't mind.

But now here he was, on the streets, homeless, shivering in the cold under the cold gray light of dawn.

He was small and pale, growth stunted due to malnutrition and hardly seeing sunlight.

The snow continued to fall, painting the streets of Ontario white.

Passerbys didn't give him so much of a glance as they hurried by, covered in heavy coats and breathing out mist.

He wasn't noticed much, particularly when he wanted to be noticed, like now.

He wanted someone to see him and maybe - maybe take pity on him, bring him to a place of warmth, somewhere where he wasn't as miserable as he was now.

Nobody saw him. Nobody took pity on him.

And he shrank back against the cold of winter.

He heard a crackle far away, the unmistakable sound of fire, warm, warm fire. People were yelling and screaming and they noticed fire.

He saw the colours far away, the colours of fire, orange and yellow and _warm_.

He sped towards the source of the sound and colour and warmth, eager to stop the cold from seeping into his body through his clothes, through his skin.

Skidding to a stop, he gasped at the sight.

A crowd was there already, watching the wooden cabin burn. But that was not what made him gasp.

The cabin was going up in flames, painting the white and gray world a warm shade of orange and yellow, warming the surroundings, shooting out sparks that singed and burnt.

It was beautiful. The capacity to destroy of fire was beautiful, turning wood to ash, lighting up the word in a beautiful dance.

Entranced, he took a step towards it.

Then another.

And another, until he was standing right in front of the burning structure, revelling in its beauty.

Nobody noticed the small eighteen year old enter the burning building.

He himself didn't notice when his layers of clothes charred and burnt, didn't notice when the flames licked at his skin, burning it off, exposing the tender dermis, not when the doorway collapsed behind him.

It was so _warm_.

See, the boy had only experienced cold and ice and snow, never the crackling warmth of fire, and he was drawn to it like a moth to candlelight.

With a crash, the roof collapsed, opening to the heavy gray clouds above, where snow still fell, twirling in the sky, dancing their last dance as they burned up in the flames.

It was an amazing sight to him.

The whole building was a candle to the hard cake which was covered in cold icing, and it was the best birthday cake he had ever had.

It was the best birthday he had ever had, and the first time he celebrated it.

And as he burned, he smiled.

Maybe he'd be noticed now.

\--

Canada always burned something on his birthday. After the burning of Washington, he liked to burn things, reminding himself of the power he had held then.

Despite that, the second largest country was constantly forgotten by his fellow nations. Maybe it was because he was so soft spoken.

\--

Canada is so hard to write.

I need suggestions on how the others go, so please review!

See you!


	9. Spread Your Wings

**America: Spread Your Wings**

Alfred F. Jones had always admired eagles, how they flew free, how majestic they were.

The American sat on the ledge of the twentieth floor of the apartment, swinging his legs, looking out to the coast where eagles flew without a care in the world.

He was emaciated from two weeks free from food and a few years of restriction, spurred by ten years of comments from his parents and friends about his body shape.

Once he was old enough, he had moved out from that environment, but it left its mark.

If someone had asked him when and how he would die when he was a child, he would answer that heroes didn't die, and even if he did, he would die heroically!

How naïve he was at the time. Would the eight year old him be disgusted with this current him? Or would he come save him?

He looked down at the flow of humans and traffic below. He was so far up that they couldn't see him.

How good it must be to have a purpose in life, he thought. Not just being useless, waiting for death.

He wondered if anyone would miss him. His family, maybe. His father and mother and big brother and Arthur and Antonio and Gilbert and Kiku, maybe.

He wasn't sure if anyone like him anymore. He was this annoying friend that tried too hard to be cool but ended up cheesy, and he never knew how to eat properly.

He had stopped doing that, but it was after he got his own apartment in this place some ten miles away from his old home. He wondered if anyone had tried to contact him after he changed his number when his phone had dropped into the river when he attempted for the first time. His survival instinct had gotten the better of him, and people were already worrying, coming up and asking if he was alright.

Everything was his fault, anyway. It was his fault that they didn't like him. Looking back, everything was his fault.

Arthur had always scolded him for being obnoxious. It was nothing, merely a reflex to teach him manners, but he never listened.

He thought that maybe if he acted this way, people would notice him more and he would be happier.

Of course, it didn't succeed.

He looked up again, to the eagles soaring in the sky.

He wanted to fly, to be free of his worries. He was too heavy, however, for flight. He was always too heavy, too fat.

He wondered if he was skinny enough now. Of course not. He scoffed, of course he wasn't enough.

He never was.

Spreading his arms, he thought of flying. To be free. Why was America called the land of the free when nobody was? When everyone was shackled and bound?

To be truly free.

What is it?

As a child, he had been entranced by comics of superheroes that saved the world from evil villains.

Now, he saw that there was no heroes or heroines in the world.

Perhaps only in the minds of children, a hero would come to save them.

He had been praying for someone to save him, someone to drag him out of this downward spiral of self destruction, but nobody was heroic.

Wind whipped across his face, messing up his blond hair and stinging his eyes. Maybe he would have cried, a long time ago, from these cocktail of emotions, but his tears had long dried up by then.

It wasn't worth crying when it wouldn't change anything.

Antonio and Gilbert were practically inseparable, the besties they were. Alfred got to know Antonio through Gilbert. They had been good friends ever since then, sneaking out to get drinks and fooling together. He had a nagging suspicion though, that they didn't really like him, the loud idiot who barged into their friendship.

Kiku was a Japanese transfer in his school. He had instantly became friends with him. Now, he realized that Kiku was just putting up with him, trying not to hurt his feelings.

He appreciated it, but he knew that nobody truly liked him.

With a quick push of his legs, he spread his arms, imagining of wings and fell.

Maybe he would be an eagle when he reincarnated.

\--

America had an infatuation with eagles, the majestic birds they were, symbolising freedom.

England had told him time and time again that freedom was just an imagination of shackled people, that freedom wasn't real, but America was the land of the free and home of the brave, was it not?

\--

I thought that America would be easier to write, given the number of Depressed!America fics out there, but nooo. He was as hard to write as Canada, which is why these two chapters are so short.

Kudos to anyone who got the two references in this chapter! Both are from songs, one Japanese and one English.

See you!


	10. Ahem

**China: Ahem**

The six year old child trudged through the cold streets. Cars passed by, filling the air with exhaust and loud honking.

He coughed, once, twice, graduating into a full-out hacking fit.

He had been like this for a while now, coughing and wheezing. It was just a normal cough, just the changing of the seasons, he told himself. Nothing to worry about. He didn't even have the money to consult a doctor.

The family of Wang, this boy's family, had lived in poverty for who knew how many generations. Worse, his father had adopted a love for majiang and drinking, further decreasing the family's vault (not that they had one).

He had, after another beating from his drunken father one night (his mother had just stood there, already used to it all), ran out and found himself a job washing dishes. He would move out of the house one day and become successful, he promised himself. He would have children who looked up to him and respected him.

The pay was meager, five renminbi a day, but it would suffice. He would save two and give his father three to gamble and buy drinks with.

His father didn't notice him absent from the house in the day. All that he noticed was the extra three renminbi a day. His mother, well, she didn't care.

Walking to work in the red light district's local restaurant was nothing compared to the bruises he would receive back home. He had just developed a hacking cough, but it was only because of the exhaust the vehicles put out. No biggie.

He entered the not yet opened restaurant, said hello to the owner and went to the back to prepare for the day's work.

The owner was a round man named Lee Xing. He was a good man, cheerful and kind, just tended to be a little overworked sometimes. How he opened a restaurant in the red light district, Yao didn't know.

His part of the kitchen was a small three square feet near the water faucet, most of which was occupied by the wide bucket he used to wash the utensils with and stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls and chopsticks and spoons later in the day. He was to squat for the while day, washing them as quickly as he could to supply the bustling restaurant with enough eating utensils.

It was a thankless job, but he knew that he couldn't do anything more than that. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

The flow of water and yells of waiters and cooks and spatulas against woks was what he heard all day.

The boy's hand's tender skin was covered in callouses from the strong washing liquid and coarse cloth that he used to wipe the dishes dry. He was a good worker, quick and efficient and the only plates he had broken were in the first day, where a cook accidentally splashed hot oil on him.

He coughed a few times more in the kitchen, but no one gave any thought to it or even noticed it, so loud was the kitchen, gas fires roaring and the rasp of stir frying.

He stumbled out of the kitchen sixteen hours later, the restaurant closing, the loud metal doorflap - what was that anyway? They were so loud - pulled halfway down.

Outside, the cars and motorcycles passed, not giving any notice to the six year old outside of the eatery alone.

His chest constricted and he felt a shooting pain, earning a loud, raspy cough.

A cook leaving the restaurant looked worryingly at him, but decided that it wasn't his business and turned away.

He too, decide that it was nothing serious, just the bad air quality and turned too, heading for the house that held no meaning as home to him.

Along the way, he stopped thrice, each time coughing up a storm, phlegm making its way up his throat and he spat it out.

It was yellow, tinged with specks of red. He didn't notice it, though, and continued his route back.

He pulled his thin sweater tighter around him. It was cold. The autumn wasn't supposed to be this cold, though... he charted it down to pollution. It was always pollution and global warming.

He shivered.

Maybe he had a fever. What was his last meal again? Maybe he had ate too much of heaty food and had a fever. He would drink more water later.

He was tired, but it was normal, as it was ten in the night. He had a pounding headache and cold, clammy hands, which was probably because he woke up at five in the morning and slept at midnight.

His heart was fluttering and his breath came in quick, shallow gasps.

This wasn't a good sign.

He felt cold all over, heat all over, his head hurt, his body hurt, his chest was stabbing itself with a blunt and rusty knife, everything hurt, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathehecouldn'tbreathehecould

n'tbreathehecouldn'tbreathe.

His thoughts slurred together like his father's words when he came back home, he was falling, his vision danced with dark spots and he was sweating despite being cold.

His lungs tore out a wheeze, strong enough to jerk his frail body back from the fetal position (when had he done that?) and he coughed a loud, racking, phlegm filled fit, yellow and red and white and green. His vision darkened, and his eyes rolled back.

After what seemed hours and hours of coughing, the only son of the Wang family slumped onto the dirty street, eyes wide and breathing stopped and heart stopped and lifeless.

His father noticed three renminbi less in his tattered purse the next day, but he shrugged it off and continued playing majiang with his friends and taking swigs of his drink.

His mother noticed that the kid that bugged her was gone, but didn't say anything. At least she could do her housework in peace now.

\--

The air quality of China wasn't very good, owing to the huge amount of people and fuel-powered vehicles. He always wondered how his people managed it, but it seemed to him that they had already been accustomed to it. He worried about the children dying in his hospitals of pneumonia, loud, racking wheezes that they made.

China's children were all grown up, and he revelled in seeing them become successful.

Especially Japan.

\--

I searched up the main causes of death in children in China and it gave me pneumonia. The results, I mean. China's air quality is quite bad, according to the Chinese e-books I read.

There was this one joke in one of them that said, "a Chineseman went to Switzerland by plane. When he got off the plane, he immediately had a coughing fit and the plane attendants asked him if he was well. He answered, "China! China!" They immediately understood and flew him back to China. When he reached China, his friend asked him why he flew back. He said that the air was so f*cking clean that he couldn't stand it."

I'm sorry you had to read such a long author's note, but I needed to get this not so funny joke off my chest.

See you!


	11. Homicide Parade

**Russia: ****Homicide Parade**

**Warning: Gore and Violence**

The man dressed in a long coat was nearing his house.

Crunch-crunch-crunch, the snow went underneath his black boots. When he lifted them up, the snow was pink, bringing colour to the white canvas.

He shuffled closer to his house, stopping and staring at the wooden door, clutching the dagger poorly concealed in the blood-stained coat.

The boy gripped the pipe a little tighter.

He hoped that his sisters were sound asleep upstairs. Their parents had gone out to town a few days ago, to trade for food and firewood to get through the winter.

A day ago, a family was found dead in their beds, stabbed to death, a clean stab wound through the chest.

It had quickly progressed into two, then three, then nearly a quarter of the village was dead.

And the killer was heading to his home right now. A light sleeper, Ivan Braginsky had woken at the sound of boots shuffling outside, trampling through the snow covered streets and nearing their house. He had went down to the storeroom and grabbed an old, leaking water pipe. Just in case.

The sound started again, closer, closer, scuffing against the snow and staining it pink.

The doorknob rattled and he forced himself to hold on to it, to delay this madman as long as possible, though he didn't know why. It wouldn't even matter, he would just come in and run his blade through everybody and leave, looking for his next family of victims.

But he held on. And with one final turn, the door creaked open.

He gulped, and flung his full weight onto the old wooden door. It closed, all right, but it meant that he was giving away his location and he would just come looking for him as soon as he entered.

He clenched the pipe a little tighter, closer to his chest.

The door was flung open, pushing him against the wall. A pair of crazed eyes swept across the room, stopping when they caught sight of his trembling body.

He grinned - the most terrifying smile he had seen - and advanced towards him.

One step forward.

One step backwards.

Forward.

Backwards.

Forward.

No space left.

Forward.

Forward.

Forward.

"Little boy, do you know who I am?"

The words were smooth and sweet, almost like thick honey and the borscht that he loved, coming out in a purr. If Ivan had not seen the man's eyes, the madness simmering under them, he would have thought that the man was a good person. Not one that stabbed his friends through their hearts.

But he did, and here he was.

He raised his pipe.

"I'm - I'm not scared of you!"

False words of bravery in the face of danger.

The man giggled, a laugh that he certainly wouldn't have imagined coming out of his throat, high-pitched and girly and dangerous.

"Let's see - ooh, a heart of courage! I'll need that! Maybe I should cut it out, preserve it to not rot away, yes?"

What was he going on about?

"I have to be careful! Don't want to go around damaging important things, do I?"

Right. He was insane.

He raised his pipe, this time meaning to strike down hard into the man that was a few heads taller than him.

He caught hold of his arm easily, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, an insane grin spreading across his features.

He flipped out the dagger, and before he had time to react, plunged it into his chest, just a few centimeters away from his heart.

Blood immediately spurted out, splashing on the walls, flowing to the floor.

He felt just a sharp pain that faded away into dull throbbing that clouded his thoughts, making his body convulse and bring down the pipe, once, twice, thrice onto the madman when he dragged the blade across his chest.

He was too weak - loss of blood and the shock of sudden coldness weakening him - but thinking of his sisters, wanting to protect them from this monster, he was fuelled by some sort of unknown strength and bashed his head in.

One.

For the lives you cut away.

Two.

For the flowers that were yet to bloom.

Three.

For he felt that he had to kill him.

He fell to the ground, head caved in, splinters of bone embedded in the gray matter of his brain that mixed with the red on his pipe.

It became fun, this game of whack-a-mole, only that the mole was insane and didn't duck.

When had he evolved into the same monster he was trying to eradicate?

The blood gushing out of his chest was too much, too much as he watched the rug stain crimson, vision fading, hearing fading, thoughts fading as the cold became colder and he couldn't hear the screams of terror his sisters made, coming down to such a sight.

His platinum hair was speckled red, clothes saturated with the colour, a pool of blood around him as he staggered, then fell to the floor of the small house.

His heart fell out, not beating.

\--

Russia just wanted to make friends. He didn't know why they ran away at the sight of his pipe. It was a friend of his, one he could remember since he was a consciousness.

It could also be caused by the slightly murderous aura he tended to have, but he didn't understand. He was a large nation built on violence and wars and blood and snow, he couldn't help it.

Although he never knew the cause of it, his heart also tended to fall out of his chest. Amerika had joked about it, saying that it proved that he was a heartless monster, but it beat, and monsters do not crave the warmth of friendship.

\--

And the Allies are done! Sorry for the late update!

Thanks to lunnatixx, anglija1999 and Bekei for favouriting and following this book!

To AnimeAddicts7: Thanks for sticking around to review my books! Yeah, my mind tends to churn up the weirdest and most confusing shit and I just write it down. When I publish it, I go all "I screwed my book up" and just lie in bed reflecting on my life choices. Glad to see you interested~!

See you!


	12. Bad Blood

**Denmark: Bad Blood**

_Tick-tock_, the clock sounded. _Tick-tock, _counting down the life of the boy he so loved.

Lukas stared at Matthias, the latter pale and sickly. He could see clumps of his blond hair missing, body frail and skinny, ribs poking through the scratchy cotton of the hospital garb his lover was in.

Yet, the person who was supposed to be feeling sad wasn't. Instead, the young man on the bed grinned at him, lighting up the whole hospital with his smile.

A year ago, the Dane had collapsed in English class, blood trickling out his nose. He had bruises all over, but he wasn't from an abusive family. No, quite the contrary. His parents had lavished all their love on their only child.

Everyone knew that, so it was a surprise. Rumors had flown quickly around the school, saying that he was beaten up by a local gang or bullied by someone.

The normal gossip, leading one way to the other.

Lukas had sat on the cold bench of the cafeteria, fingers clenching tightly around his mug of steaming coffee, a lonely figure without his loud Danish boyfriend by his side.

Homosexuality wasn't looked down upon in the town, but some still could hold prejudice towards them.

He wanted to believe that the stupid Dane had just went off and offended someone, that it was just a slight beating and he would be back soon, the same hyperactive optimistic happy Dane.

The teachers had already marked it as a sick break when the ambulance arrived, as attempts to wake him had not been successful, so they didn't call out his name in the first ten minutes that different periods started and the teacher strode into class.

It was unsettling, the school seemingly quietened by Matthias Køhler's sudden trip to the hospital.

Days faded into weeks, and Lukas felt scared, fidgeting and not paying attention to the teachers up front. He had expected his boyfriend to come skipping up the stairs of the school after - at the most - three days, so when the fifth day came and passed, he _knew _that something was wrong.

Having been to the Køhler residence before, he walked - or ran - there, stopping only once he had reached the snow-topped house that he missed. The doorbell rang and Elena Køhler, his mother, looked at him from the screen installed beside the button and welcomed him inside.

Ask sip of tea and an untouched bowl of biscuits later, Elena had broken out in huge, heaving sobs and he rubbed her back soothingly, just like he did his brother when he was a small baby.

His father scowled at him from under his thick eyebrows, and told him gruffly, that Matthias was still in the hospital receiving treatment.

Maybe he should not have inquired, but he asked what illness warranted the nearly invincible Matthias Køhler such a long stay in the hospital.

His mother sniffed, wiping at tears forming in her eyes, voice shaking, delivering the news that he didn't think he would hear, and definitely didn't want to.

"L-leukaemia. Acute lymphocytic."

He remembered that he had just sat there. Like a statue, after hearing the three words of doom.

HR had grabbed the keys to his bike, having asked where the hospital was and which room he was in and left, driving blindly, nearly causing a few accidents.

Before he pushed open the door to the hospital room (in the cancer wing. He hated his detail noting sometimes), he had thought of everything he would say to him.

He would yell at him, that stupid idiotic moron, how he hadn't thought of contacting him earlier, why hadn't had he let him know his situation. And then give him a kiss. Then yell at him again, fuck being in a hospital.

But when he pushed the white door open, he couldn't say anything.

The Dane was sitting on the bed, leaning on the pillow, just like how he would a week before, large grin adorning his face - he was now, but it was so wrong. Something was so wrong, seeing such a happy expression on a face which body was riddled with bad blood, dammit.

He made his way over to the side of his bed quietly, pulling up a chair. The feet of the chair squealed against the ground.

"Oh, hej, Lukas! Fancy seeing you here!"

It was then when Lukas opened his mouth, fully expecting to hear a tirade of insults pouring out of him, but he was surprised by what came out.

"Of course I would - what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't? And why, for Thor's sake, did you not tell me this?"

"Ehe~ I thought you would worry, and-"

He was cut off by an angry Lukas, finally returning to his senses, remembering why he had came here in the first place.

"You absolute dolt! You thought that hiding such a thing from me doesn't make me worry, when you've been gone for _five days?! _FIVE DAYS, WHEN YOU NEVER MISS A DAY OF SCHOOL, EVEN WHEN YOU WERE RUNNING A FEVER OF 44 CELCIUS ONCE?!"

His voice rose rapidly, not caring that he really shouldn't yell in hospitals. That idiot, thinking that by hiding the truth would shield him from the pain - he didn't realize, did he, that discovering the truth after being hidden from it for so long only hurt more.

This idiot.

How long had he planned to hide it from him?

"Lukas-"

He stopped, hearing the boy on the bed say his name, remembering that it was a _cancer _patient.

"Lukas - Lukas, don't cry. It's not the end of the world yet, don't - don't. Please."

He was crying? He wiped his face, finding it wet with two thin rivulets of salty water.

He wasn't crying for the idiot, right? He wasn't, he wasn't, he was just tired. Yeah. He hadn't slept the previous day, tossing and turning in his sheets, worrying- no. He wasn't worrying about the Dane. He never did.

He was talking again, Lukas hardly listening but aware.

"I know - I know that this is hard to accept, but I'm already here and I thought that I would rather you hate me for leaving suddenly, rather than hating yourself for being unable to do anything as I die, and I - well, this happened."

There was silence.

"You know what, it's late, I'm going home. See you tomorrow."

The "see you tomorrow" was not a goodbye, but a "I hope you don't die when I'm gone".

He knew and appreciated it, the unspoken affection between the two.

"...See you."

He didn't want him to leave, he didn't want to be left alone in the bare hospital room with only the cold beep-beep-beep of the machines and the tick-tock of the clock.

It was moments like this when he felt so alone, so vulnerable. He wanted to be strong, to protect his lover from the harsh world outside.

It seemed that he was still too weak.

Lukas stepped out of the hospital, cold wind greeting him beneath the starless, moonless dark sky.

Once alone, he screamed, hitting his head on the concrete white wall, stomping his feet and sobbing, his emotionless mask well and truly shattered.

He wasn't ready yet, for another to be snatched away, just when he was prepared to entrust his heart to him.

He also knew that making him live longer could be torturous to the patient, making them live for another day of pain.

But selfishly, he wanted the Dane to live another and another day, to be able to spend another day with him.

He didn't want any of this, dammit.

But he knew that his worst fears had become true, and he had no choice to accept it.

Now, it was a few days before the date that the doctor declared that he would most likely die.

He clenched his hands tighter, grimacing at the way his nails dug into his palms.

The Dane, around ten sizes small than before and very underweight, grinned up at him.

Idiot. Why was he so happy when he was going to die? How could he smile through the pain?

Living out his last moments in happiness, well, that was a near impossible notion, especially when you knew when and how you would die.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Mocking the fragile lives of humans, the second hand ticked on.

As night fell, he stayed, eventually nodding off.

He awoke, feeling that something was _really _wrong. Maybe it was the slower heaves of the chest under him. The heartbeat getting slower and slower.

He sat there, stunned, not really knowing what to do, and when a piercing _beep _rang out, he scrambled for the emergency button and pressed it, which didn't serve much purpose, as the beep was a warning already for the nurses.

They came rushing in the room, and Lukas could only stand there, chair abandoned and pushed to the corner in a hurry as to not obstruct them from whatever they had to do.

It wasn't enough, as one of them frantically dialed for the doctor, the beeping steadily getting louder.

Nobody came, and as the church bells tolled three in the morning, the heart line went flat and he could only feel his legs giving out under his body.

The funeral was a simple one, white and black and red, his favourite colour.

When Lukas gave the eulogy as a boyfriend of Matthias, he held in tears, voice straining with choked sobs, and he ended the speech as quickly as possible, and ducked into the portable restroom to cry his eyes out.

He was just sleeping. Just sleeping, face devoid of earthly worries.

Just sleeping.

\--

Denmark was almost, if not more upbeat and happy than the northern personification of Italy, even when everything was wrong.

He wanted to be strong, even when he had one of the smallest claim of land in Europe. And he did a pretty good job of it too.

\--

So I may or may not have deleted Colonies and Hogwarts. To be honest, I couldn't continue with the plot anymore. I'm sorry to all those who wanted to update.

Thanks to vixen122 for favouriting and following Before! Now if would someone just review- I've had only one review, guys, please please please review!

See you!


	13. Leaving Things Hanging

**Norway: ****Leaving Things Hanging**

The small blond stepped into the clearing, face expressionless.

There was a large green apparition there; hulking, over eight feet tall. A few fluttering figures were seen too, sparkling in the autumn sunlight.

He had never asked their names, but the troll had told him to call it by Sigurd. The faeries merely giggled.

They had known each other since Lukas was three, when he had saw, with his very own eyes, his little brother by one year die before his eyes, a car flying towards him, running the red light.

That night, he had wandered into them when he had ran out of the house, refusing to sleep. His parents were asleep and they never knew that their older - _only _\- son had made new friends, none of them human.

They had told him to keep it a secret, and he had done a good job of it.

The crisp cold air of late autumn cut through the air, sending yellow, orange, red and brown leaves and even the odd pinecone up in the air. Whatever remaining leaves there were left on the trees rustled.

"Hello, Sigurd," he called out, waving to the troll in the middle of the clearing. He waved back with a grunt, which, by his understanding - he was still learning the language - meant "Hello to you too, Lukas."

The faeries twittered and flew around, one tousling his hair.

The boy had come here to tell them about his first day of his last year in barneskole. He hadn't have had a nice day, and he had promised to talk to them everyday.

When he had first entered barneskole, he had been this happy, smiling child with only a cloud of darkness from the distant memory of Emil's death. They knew his name and how he died, as the three year old had sobbed it out to them on that night.

They had watched the child's face harden over the years, calloused by the harsh world and comments of his peers about his slight eccentricity that they didn't mean, but he had took it to heart.

When he turned ten, things were different, and not in a good way. The unintentional hurting comments had now turned intentional. He knew that and it hurt more. The jabs that he received from his classmates playfully had turned into slaps and kicks.

They - Sigurd, the faeries, his parents - all noticed the bruises and cuts on his body when he got back, but they didn't say anything. They said nothing, as they knew that it would make him have to play out the scene again, and it wasn't nice, having to do that. Unless he wanted to, they didn't try to force it out of him.

Smiling slightly (as he always had when he met them), he began to recount the day's events, starting from the wonderful _frokost _that he had the morning, frowning slightly when he mentioned the lessons. When he talked about the bullies, however, he shuddered slightly.

"And- and Alexander told me that Emil died because I was too weak to save him, that he hated me for being a bad big brother..."

Oh no he didn't.

Lukas, ever since the accident, had become sensitive to the words "big brother". Emil died before he could ever call him that. Lukas blamed himself for his death.

Just saying that out loud was enough to break him.

"... I remembered the wind that cars do when they whoosh by, father's and mother's screams, and Emil just... lying on the road. All red. The air smelling so sour and bitter. I just-" he broke off and sniffled.

The troll looked down at the young boy sitting in the stump of the tree, fists clenched, hunched over and sobbing loudly. It said nothing.

"He- he told me to kill myself. To just go die. And the world would be better, free from freaks like me."

His voice, now laced with steel, cut through the small clearing in the small forest, like a sharp knife cutting through butter.

The troll grunted, saying something that he couldn't decipher.

Abruptly, he stood up and left, running for the house.

Now, all he had to do was to finish his homework and something additional.

Reaching home, he rummaged around for a while, before pulling out a length of climbing rope.

Norway had a lot of mountains, so it would only be natural that they had some rope for hiking steep slopes.

And he would go a very steep slope tonight, hanging off it.

Tying a slipknot, he finished his homework that the teachers gave. He might as well do it anyway, as he _was _there when they gave it out. He had no excuses not to.

The ink was running out, just enough left for a short note.

_Father and mother,_

_I suppose I should keep this short. The ink's running out. Anyway, I saw Emil today. Said that he missed me and wanted me to come with him. I'll be leaving for - who knows? I'll try to visit if I can._

_With lots of love,_

_Lukas_

The house was stone and wood, with rafters that made up the rib of the roof. Attached to them were lights, gently swaying with the wind blowing in from the open windows. He supposed that he could climb up there and hang another thing from it.

It wouldn't exactly be a pleasant sight, but it would be a parting gift for his parents, to thank them for bringing him and Emil into the changing seasons and colours.

No matter how little they could see.

And as he tiptoed on the high stool, he felt a strange sense of serenity come over him.

As the wooden stool hit the floor, the troll and faeries smiled sadly, thanking himhim for bringing them into the changing seasons and colours, no matter how little they could see.

And as the green faded into the air and lights dim, they were engulfed again in darkness.

\--

Norway usually pestered Iceland to call him "big brother". Iceland doesn't know why, but he usually doesn't, unless bribed with liquorice.

He could see magical creatures all right, and Sigurd was proof of his point. They had hit it off right in the beginning, when he opened his eyes and saw the troll gazing down at him, without hostility and with kindness, like how a father would a child.

His mountainous land made him a professional hiker, and he had at least two hiking trips each month, paperwork or no.

\--

Okay I don't have an idea of what I'm writing about. The first few chapters were horrible, I won't deny that. I'm thinking of rewriting them, so if you veterans that survived them have any suggestions, feel free to put them forth.

Was this chapter confusing? I think I must explain the magicals. Norway in this has schizophrenia, and they are based off how he thinks they would react and their personality. I know schizophrenia doesn't work this way, but I can't really think of a better one. As for the end, it (kinda?) symbolises the ending of a childhood and loss when one matures.

To vixen122: Thanks for reviewing! I swear, every one of us reading the Angst tag is a masochist.

I may be going on a few days' hiatus, as I have a lot of homework to catch up.

See you!


	14. Splash

**Sweden: Splash**

Now, it wasn't the first time Adrian had seen this strange kid on the wharf, making something - carving, he guessed.

The 67 - it would be his 68th birthday the next week and two days - year old fisherman sat down next to the young - 15 years old? - boy. The boy flinched and turned, only to return to whatever he was doing.

It was a small wooden moose, one that stood tall and majestic despite its size.

The boy was tall, about 180 cm tall, easily towering over Adrian. But he was hunched over now, making him seem smaller than he was.

He put a hand on his shoulder. He nearly dropped the carving in his hands and scooted away from him, expressionless but clearly panicked.

He put his hand down.

What was a kid like this doing here? It was a run-down, decrepit little town by the sea, former glory long gone and only populated by less than a dozen old fishermen and their wives.

The schoolchildren from the region school shunned the place and never came there.

He was most certainly one, and it was just half an hour since the school bell rang for the end of the day.

Seeing that the fisherman wasn't a threat, he began making small adjustments to the moose. He sat far away from Adrian, closer to the edge of the sea. He wanted to call out to him, tell him that is wasn't safe there, but he decided against it. If he had such a large reaction before, he would probably fall off hearing the loud voice that followed him into his old years.

Why hadn't he returned home? His parents would worry.

Putting down the carving knife, he stared at the sky, dark and cloudy. Nor dark enough to rain, but enough to create a feeling of oppression.

Adrian shook his head and boarded his fishing boat. It would rain, but he wouldn't go far, just a few (nautical) miles in.

When he started the fuel-powered motor, loud footsteps on the wooden jetty alerted him to another, no, a crowd of young boys, about the same age as the boy.

He seemed scared. Really scared, and from where he was, was sobbing, shoulders shaking.

Immediately, he knew that something was wrong. If they were friends, he wouldn't be so frightened by them.

Bullies? Every school had them, though he didn't expect someone as big as the boy would be bullied. Then again, most tough boys don't carve wooden moose.

They couldn't see him in the boat, but he saw and heard them very well. And he intended to keep it that way.

It hadn't quite escalated into physical violence yet, but they were closing in, taunting and jeering, like a pack of wolves encircling their prey.

"Freak."

He heard the names they called him.

"I heard you were gay. Disgusting faggot."

So, that was why they didn't like him? Understandable, but it still didn't make up for their actions, did it?

"Nobody likes you, you retard."

Okay that was going a bit too far.

A hand grabbed at his right hand, where he was clutching the small carving to his chest.

"Ooh, what's this? A gift for your _boyfriend_?"

He spat it out like venom, then laughing at his look of despair (though his mouth was still set into a hard line. He hardly showed emotion), then laughed, as the others joined in.

He was the leader of them, he realized.

Shoving it back ("I don't want you gay germs on me"), the leader of the pack kicked at the boy trying to stand, but hampered by them, now a small circle around him.

No doubt, he hated small spaces and crowds of people. It got a little hard to breathe in there, and they were bullies.

The others joined in, pushing and shoving and kicking at him, until he was curled up in a tight ball, rocking back and forth.

It happened too fast. Adrian the fisherman hadn't time to react as the boy lost ground and fell into the sea with a splash. It was below freezing and that part of the sea was particularly deep for the coast, around 10 metres deep.

He tried to save him, tried to untangle himself from the cocoon of nets that entangled him, but he was sinking fast, his heavy coat not doing any favours in not dragging him down.

He watched, helpless, as the air bubbles on the surface lessened and, finally, stopped.

After pushing him down, the crowd had already left, laughing amongst themselves and loudly chattering about girls in the area.

The moose was gone, tucked safely into his coat.

Now, it bobbed onto the surface, the only indicator of what had happened and where Berwald Oxenstierna lay, peaceful.

\--

Sweden didn't show much emotion or say many things. Other nations often avoided him, as his aura felt scary, so he had trouble making friends and was always awkward around people.

He loved crafting, and his family - specifically Denmark - teased him for his room littered with small carvings and furniture from Ikea. He didn't mind it, really. It wasn't as if he didn't say the same about Lego to Denmark.

\--

Hello again, my brave friends for finishing this short, crappy chapter! I tried to write in fisherman Adrian's perspective, as it was hard to write from Sweden's.

There's a headcanon that Sweden has Asperger's, as he has some traits that match the diagnosis. I fully support of this headcanon. I hope this is accurate enough.

See you!


	15. Spin

**Finland: ****Spin**

He liked guns.

The loud "bang", then jerk and the smell of gunpowder left on his hands excited him.

Such a powerful and beautiful weapon, able to take a life in a split second, the life not even aware of it, if aimed correctly.

He was aware of it now, as he held the sleek revolver in his hands, its barrel shining in the sunlight.

The snow fell thickly, covering the gray ground with a thick blanket of white.

The sky was gray too, as sunlight poked out through layers of clouds with feeble warmth, attempting and failing to stop the freezing Finnish winter.

Trees coated with snow swayed gently, whispering softly, softly to him about things past and to come.

The forest was long devoid of wildlife, all choosing to hibernate, to sleep away the harsh winter.

He had a gun in his hands, with one cartridge loaded. The barrel glinted in the sunlight, beckoning him to come closer, put it by his head.

He did what it asked.

Spin.

Click.

A blazing fire, lighting up the sky with specks of yellow.

Spin.

Click.

A scream, legs kicking at the stranger, unable to stop the stranger from dragging him away.

Spin.

Click.

A particularly bad snowstorm, a loud crash and cold, cold snow above, below, left and right.

Spin.

Click.

A child not over 6 years of age, laughing with him, trying to climb into his arms.

Spin.

Click.

Would he be missed? By who? By the man he loved? By the child from the adoption centre?

No, he wouldn't be missed. Who could love such a broken soul? Such a scarred body?

No one, that was who.

Spin.

Bang.

It hadn't _hurt _at first, the bullet going a few millimeters off course, but as the seconds ticked away, an unbearable searing pain swallowed him, with the splash of blood and some gray matter imprinted on the snow, turning it a beautiful shade of crimson.

Too bad nobody else was there to see.

The snow continued falling, covering the red with a thick blanket of white.

Fin.

\--

Finland was known for his skill with guns, although he didn't look like he could harm a fly. The last time someone had asked, that someone had ended up being chased by an angry Finn and traumatized for a long time.

He warmed up to anyone, was kind and cheerful. How Finland managed it with weather similar to Russia, none of the nations knew.

\--

Hello again! Here's a very short chapter of Finland's!

AnimeAddicts7: I had actually wanted to run Iceland after Norway, but I also wanted to run Scandinavia together, so yeah. Your friend's a Hetalia fan too? Sadly, none of mine knows Hetalia. 5 bucks is quite a lot of money (20 in Malaysian currency), though.


	16. Typical

**Iceland: Typical**

They said he was a typical teenager filled with typical teenager angst.

He didn't like to be called "typical". The 16 year old Icelandic did seem like one, but he wanted to be _different_.

But it seemed like everything he did was "typical teenage behaviour". He liked to wear darker clothes, so he was "a typical emo". He didn't like to talk, so he was "a typical social awkward person".

It was getting annoying, really. People talked to him as if addressing a child.

He was not a _child, _dammit. Sure, he might be younger, but he was _not _five.

He wanted to be seen as more than a "typical teenager". He wanted to be seen as a somebody, not a nobody whose antics resembled one who wanted to be unique but failed tremendously.

Actually, he was one. But nobody cared, nobody wanted to.

It was like when his parents left him alone for long stretches of time again.

When he was a child, his parents often left for business overseas, not caring if he was lonely or not, or whether a child that small needed his parents' love.

They just left.

When his brother started to save up money to move to Norway, he became more lonely. He still kept the puffin stuffed toy he was given on his fifth birthday, just because it was his anchor to when his parents would actually remember him, even though it was only once a year. Because he needed some_thing_ to talk to.

When he was old enough to go to school, he made few friends. His quiet exterior had made his classmates believe that he didn't want to be friends.

That day, every little seven year old had their parents to accompany them on their first day. Emil didn't. His brother had dropped him off without much fuss and went to work. He was saving up money to move out, so it wasn't such an issue, really. He just felt really lonely, that was all.

When a few more years were added to his frame, they had taken to teasing him, pushing him around, just because he liked books and didn't have trouble scoring a pass on tests. Words like "nerd" and "show-off" were thrown his way every day. It was fine, really. Really.

Until that had evolved into demanding for his homework and threatening him and the punches that came his way when the teacher wasn't looking. Once, some of the boys had locked him into a cubicle in the girls' toilet and left him there until the last bell had rang. When a teacher coming into the toilet and hearing the weak banging from the door had unlocked him from it, he was in tears.

And he was just a "typical bullied teen with a family problem" and the grown-ups had assured him that there was someone out there that fared much worse than him.

He just didn't want to try anymore. So he just went on his day as a "typical bullied teen" and left that at there.

It wasn't as he could change anything. Nobody wanted to listen to him anymore. Lukas had moved out, so his only shoulder to cry on was gone.

He was all alone. Typical.

He wondered if anyone had remembered it was his birthday that day. Of course not. Not a single ring of the phone. Not even a "happy birthday" text or email.

Nobody cared.

He'd just have to celebrate the typical way, then. A pity party was due.

Outside, the blue sky reached to the ends of the earth. The giant blazing ball of light called the sun was shining down, not giving a fuck for those who wanted shade and coolness.

He had set out to buy a cake and a large bag of licorice for himself on foot with some of the money that his parents sent home every month, barely acknowledging his existence.

As he walked back home, he thought of how the day went. It was typical, like he was, the only exception being that it was his birthday.

Everything was okay. He was just lonely but he was used to it by now.

It happened so fast, he had no time to react. One moment he was on the black and white line that allowed pedestrians to cross the road (if he remembered correctly, the red and green light had still a long time to turn red), the other he was thrown up into the air by a large brown truck, flying through the air.

It was exhilarating, but he was pretty sure that he had broken and fractured at least five bones and would die pretty soon.

You see, people process things in slow motion when they're in danger. And so Emil thought about how long it would take for him to hit the asphalt, for the cake to splatter all across it and the licorice that would be strewn out all across the road and the red that would be mixed in.

He heard screams around, and shouting, and the screeching of cars as they stopped to stare. No one called an ambulance for him. They _knew_ what to do, but _doing_ it proved to be hard.

As he hit the asphalt, the large truck out of sight, he tried to stand, to control the twitching of his muscles and _goddammit, just stand_.

He failed miserably, collapsing onto the hot black, cake splattered, licorice strewn road. He was bleeding out profusely from the wound where his head had hit the road, and he was aware that he was going to pass out and probably die from blood loss, so fuzzy his head and vision was.

Finally, a driver came to their - he wasn't sure if they were male or female - senses and called for help to carry the bloodied young teenager into his car - bless him - and send him to the ER. Nobody had called the ambulance. Was it really that hard to? A 9-9-9 and "hello, someone has been hit by a truck in XXX" would suffice.

But it really wasn't time to think of these questions, so he let himself be pulled into the dark embrace of sleep, its land bordering of death.

And when the hospital had came into sight of the driver's, he had wandered over the border.

There.

He wasn't such a typical teenager anymore, was he?

Lukas went to his funeral. Head bowed and hands clasped before him. He let his thoughts wander as the eulogy was spoken, something about how they would miss him dearly by his class teacher. He couldn't care more.

He wanted to know if Emil would have died if he hadn't moved to Norway. If he had sent a "happy birthday" text, telephoned him, would Emil, his younger brother, have been hit by a truck running the red light and going across the speed limit?

Some deaths are unavoidable, but this wasn't one of them.

The rain didn't give a duck to those that wanted even a lick of happiness that day.

\--

Iceland was different from Europe. He was far, far away from mainland Europe, hence why he had weird tendencies, like the ability to consume licorice by the ton and lopaseysas.

The abundance of volcanoes set him apart from the others. When one of them had erupted with large plumes of ash and caused trouble to Europe, where the ash had floated over to, he was blamed and hated.

It wasn't really his fault, but blame had to be put on someone.

Norway pestered him to call him "big brother", but he didn't see the point of it.

What was the point of calling someone "big brother" when he hadn't been around most of his early years?

\--

Here's Iceland! Did you notice how he died in a road accident, much like the Emil in Norway's? Some tweaks to the story and here you are! I went on Quora for how does it feel like to be hit by a car, so I'm probably a little off, but then again everyone's still living.

And there you have the Nordics! I'm planning to do the others later, starting with Spain.

To Guest: Hello! Welcome to the hell that is Hetalia! Don't worry, you won't be getting out soon. I recommend you to watch all six seasons of Hetalia and maybe Paint it White if you have two hours. Gutters is an amazing read (I promise you you want cry. *crosses fingers*) and I call it along with Auf Wierdeshen, Sweetheart and Danish Slaughterhouse the Hetalia fanfic Holy Trinity. If you like to be traumatized, watch Hetaoni (or play it if you can) as everyone here is traumatized by it. Try not to get too involved in the ship wars. I think that's all. Thanks for reviewing!

See you!


	17. Soul

**Spain: ****Soul**

He didn't have a clue as to why he got here.

All he knew was that the loud siren of police cars had surrounded him, a slightly drunk person wanting to get home, and the next thing he knew, he was handcuffed and brought to the police station.

What had he done that evening?

It was his birthday. He had gone out for a drink by himself, since little Lovino was still too young to drink.

A few drinks later, he had stumbled out, drunk but still conscious, walking home as it was just half a mile away. The cool night air would clear his senses.

And then his happened.

He stared at the gray wall in front of him, then the stark white, almost glowing in the dim light, frayed and thin tablecloth.

He had to get home. Lovino was probably sleeping by now, and he had to work tomorrow.

A figure clad in midnight blue and black slipped into the seat opposite him and interlaced their fingers, steepling them and aiming those eyes that seemed to stare right into his soul at him.

He slowly raised his head.

He started the moment he made eye contact with him.

"Mr. Fernandez Carriedo, are you aware of where you are right now?"

Of course he knew, sir. He was at the police station, of course. What else? He wanted to go home now. God, that stench was unbearable.

"Are you aware that you have killed a child? Ran him over and stabbing him with a short knife."

Of course- wait! What- what?! He killed somebody? _A child? _But why?

Suddenly, he was sober again, finally noticing that his shirt was not, in fact, wet with wine, but with blood.

That was what had smelled, wasn't it?

He felt sick to the stomach. He swallowed the bile and stale alcohol that came up.

"Exactly, Mr. Carriedo. It seems like you weren't quite in a normal state of mind."

What person would _kill _someone, nevermind a _child_, in a _normal _state of mind? Of course, the psychopaths and sociopaths don't count. What was he trying to say?

He gave him a hard glare.

"My point is, you were found at the scene of crime by a plainclothes police, holding a bloody knife and blood all over you, grinning maniacally, like a, well, maniac."

Splutter. He would never do such a thing! Why, he had an adopted child at home, that was probably sleeping. Why would he kill someone?

"It seems that you still deny being involved in the murder, then. We'll keep you in here until you tell us the truth."

What- but- he couldn't do that!

"Oh yes, I can."

The officer was now standing by his side, breathing down his neck and generally causing a whole lot of discomfort to him. He shifted as far as he could away from him.

He turned and left, shutting and locking the door behind him with a bang.

He was in deep, deep boiling water now. How was Lovino? He was sure that he was still sleeping, but he didn't have a watch or a clock in the room of gray and bright lights.

Would he be home when he wakes up? He hoped so. Bella would be a good guardian in case he didn't. But how was he going to contact her?

What had really happened?

The seconds ticked by, melting into minutes then hours. He was just starting to nod off in the seat, now fully sober, when the door behind him creaked open and the officer walked in.

Assuming the same position as last time, he stared into his eyes again, this time longer.

He looked away. It was uncomfortable how he looked at him like a predator looking at its next prey.

Thus time, it was Antonio who first spoke, throat dry from alcohol, voice cracking.

"Am I- am I arrested?"

The officer grinned, yes, of course, Mr. Carriedo, you are arrested under suspicion of murder and possession of weapons.

But he was _innocent_! Didn't they say "innocent until proven guilty", no?

No, Mr. Carriedo. Here, we practice "guilty until proven innocent". In case you were going to ask, no, you cannot be bailed. Now, will you answer my questions with honesty? It would be greatly appreciated.

...Why yes, of course, officer. I can't get out anyway, might as well do _something_.

When he had been transferred to a small room (yet again), he could cry tears of joy. The room, small and draughty, wasn't like it could hold a candle to the room he used to sleep in, but it was certainly better than sleeping in a chair.

At least he could see the passage of the sun through the iron bars.

It was afternoon, he realized. Lovino would be up by now, and was probably panicking, searching high and low for Antonio.

He missed home.

The officer had told him that they would see him in court, but he knew that he would lose and be charged with murder and whatever it was, and be put on life sentence, with no possiblity of parole. When that happened, he would never be able to see his Lovinito for life.

That was the least of his concerns about the little child at home. What if he hated him? What if he was bullied for him?

...He didn't want to think of that.

The tomatoes were ripening this month, he thought.

He missed the slight wind and hearty sunshine. He missed picking the large red globules with Lovino.

But for now, he was sitting on a rickety bed stained with questionable stains, in a small cell made of stone not much larger than his bathroom, behind iron bars that were locked and double locked.

If he was lucky, he might not be hated by Lovino. If he was not, well...

He couldn't live with that. So he had to die.

Looking around, he saw nobody. The officers had long gone, opting for a drink and a game of poker back in the office.

Good.

A soul for a soul, was it not? If they refused to kill a murderer of children, why not he do it himself? Even if his time was lessened, he still wouldn't be able to face Lovino, to face Bella, to face Tim, to face his friends.

He tied the bedsheet with a slipknot, creating a loop, where his head would go. He tied the free end to one of the horizontal bars on the cell door.

There. All set.

As he felt a tingling in his lips and passed out, he smiled.

Spain had a darker side, one that only came out once he was drunk. Even Sweden was scared of a drunk Spain.

He loved Romano, his former charge, although said nation often didn't return the feelings.

The nation of Spain was cheerfully oblivious, where the sun never set.

Was he?

\--

Typed this up in two hours! I normally use around three to four hours to write a chapter, but I used kitawiki as a reference and it really helped a lot.

This time, I tried a different style of writing dialogue. Was it okay?

I tried to write the procedure, really. I just gave up within half an hour.

Sooo... which nation do you want me to do next? I'll be happy to take requests! If you can, please tell me how they die, since I'll probably write something cliché for a nation I am not familiar with.

AnimeAddicts7: Ooh thanks! Don't die of the impact!

See you!


	18. Cold

**Austria: ****Cold**

The snow was silent, unlike the rowdy bar where Roderich Edelstein worked at.

It fell thickly, softly outside, piling up into large clumps of snow that melted into water and refroze into ice, and the drunk men would go stumbling outside and slip on it.

It was on this day that he decided to work late, because he couldn't sleep and why not? He was poor and the job made money.

The early hours of the morning, believe it or not, was the calmest part of the job that he took up to barely - just barely - support himself.

At three, four in the morning, when the sun hadn't yet shown its face over the hulking figures and long shadows of the Alps, the same classical musician would come in, either holding a violin case or heading for the ratty piano that had never been tuned since it was made in a large factory somewhere in Germany, and played through all the pieces he knew, which was a lot.

He never knew if he was drunk or just trying to lighten the overworked, sleepy and generally tired workers' mood, but if it was the latter, he had succeeded. If it was the former, they would still be more than happy to let him play.

As the fluffy snow outside gave way to sharp winds and small specks of ice mixed in with snow, he came trudging into the warm bar, clutching the violin case as if his life depended on it, hair tousled and glasses askew, shivering.

He immediately poured him a beer (it was the only he ever drank).

Downing it in a matter of seconds, he opened the violin case and, taking out the violin and rosin-ing its bow, began to play, running through the mental playlist that Roderich was already so familiar with, the delicateness of Chopin, the anger and love of Beethoven, the meandering and mourning of Tchaikovsky.

The small storm stopped, and as the sun rose above the horizon, colouring the eastern sky with red, orange, yellow, liliac and pink in that order, the morning customers that needed a little brandy and gin and beer to get through the constant repetition of work and the musician disappeared from the door.

Although it had stopped snowing, it was still cold, and by the open window, he sneezed.

He really needed to close that window, but it would be stuffy in there without it, and nobody liked it when it was stuffy.

He served patrons at the fastest speed possible, hoping that the money would make up for his lack of sleep.

When the small bar was empty and it was snowing again, he put himself to wiping the alcohol spills on the tiny tables.

The winter that year was an exceptionally cold one, what with cold, cold winds from the north and white and snow and ice.

He went behind the small countertop, and wiped it down the second time for good measure as well. Wood absorbs easily.

It was cold. Almost the whole town was going around in silk (for the rich) and woollen (for the rich too) and layers (for the not quite rich but manages) and even a third layer of rags (for the poor).

Roderich himself didn't. He would claim that he wasn't comfortable with layers upon layers of clothes, but in reality he was just too poor to afford them.

The streets were quiet and clean and white. Normally, it would be filled with people talking, laughing and even the random person bursting out into song, but at this time, they were all either working or huddling inside their homes, the harsh cold preventing them from stepping out into the snow covered streets of Vienna.

Roderich Edelstein liked to think himself as an aristocrat sometimes, the fellows dressed in silk and wool and furs, holding themselves elegantly as they strutted by without throwing him, a mere _peasant, _a look.

Sometimes, he sat on the not so padded bench of the tattered piano and ran his fingers over them, imagining the sound of pure beauty flowing out from beneath his fingers, that he was the controller of such beauty and elegance. Sometimes, he baked a small cake and consumed it with tea, like he'd seen them do when passing by their lit houses.

But old habits die hard and he found himself, once again, darning his socks and mending his underwear, too proud to admit that he had no extra money to buy new clothes.

As he walked out in the evening (he still had to sleep), stars shining as bright as the snow was reflecting the half moon's moonlight, he saw the young girl carrying a bouquet of daisies, hurrying home. Was it a special day for her? Did she just want some colour to spruce up the gray, white and black that was winter?

It didn't really matter, it didn't, seeing the large smile on her face. As long as other people were happy, none of their business mattered to anyone else.

But it mattered when he felt a sneeze coming up, when he remembered that daisies were one of the most pollen producing plants and that he was allergic to it.

He had (quite severe) asthma too.

It was okay, wasn't it? He just had to hurry home. If worst came to worst, his emergency inhaler was still in his pocket.

The snow continued falling as the Austrian hurried home, to the small hut that he had become used to and cherished.

He was halfway there now, when he could see the faint outline of the dark wood of the building, when he started coughing and coughing and coughing, seemingly not stopping.

He had dreaded for it to happen, out in the cold, cold winter where the cold covered him like a thick blanket and surrounded him, forcing its way down his throat and tearing out the loudest coughs he had ever had - it heard in his life, where it gave way to wheezing in pain, chest heaving up, down, up, down, cold, long fingers clutching at his chest.

The inhaler, no matter how hard he tried to grasp it from where he put it, slipped from his desperate fingers, where the nails had become a shade of bluish gray that matched his lips.

Nonononononononononono. No. Not now, please, _please, _not now.

His chest was squeezing in around his lungs and heart and his ribs, breathing hard, hard, but never seeming to get enough oxygen, and the cold air only seemed to shrink the volume of it, pushing, pushing, smaller and smaller.

He was gasping for breath now, huge gulps of cold, cold air entering and warm, warm air exiting and he was _cold_.

He tried to find a rhythm, to remember the music and inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

He was suffocating, falling now, his lips tingling, chest _so painful so painful it hurtsithurts _kneeling in the snow, eyes glazed over, seeing whitewhitewhitewhite over and over again and _goddammit, _just breathe normally, please.

Specks of darkness appeared, speckling the white snow with splatters of ink, growing bigger, bigger, until it was night but the stars weren't shining and the snow wasn't reflecting the half moon's glow.

It was lessening now, the pain, replacing one with another. The feeling that his lungs were trying to expand out, out of his ribs was now gone, replaced by a headache and he couldn't - he couldn't feel the cold anymore.

The snow was silent, unlike the rowdy bar where the first customers were starting to stream in.

It fell thickly, softly outside, piling up into large clumps of snow that melted into water and refroze into ice, encasing the dark haired man inside.

\--

Austria prided himself on being the nation of music, especially classical music. Chopin was great, Beethoven was German but he was okay with it, and he hated that Tchaikovsky was not his.

He was an aristocrat, one that cleaned and mended and baked, but one nonetheless. Unable to move for far for long, he blamed it on his poor stamina, although there was another that wheezed and coughed, but it was never apparent.

\--

Look, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, okay. This came out very very badly.

I'll be doing Hungary next. Please do send in requests or suggestions. If there isn't, I might stop at Sealand (after Belarus and Ukraine), unless I get a sudden inspiration for a character.

I'm sorry for the sudden negativity in this note, really I am.

See you!


	19. Red Smoke

**Hungary: Red** **Smoke**

Now, Elizaveta - or Daniel as she was now - hadn't not considered death when she took her brother's place in the army.

The battlefield was now a chaotic mess where no one could actually pick out reds from blues and therefore allies and enemies. The air was filled with smoke, courtesy of the various bombs and grenades thrown and the fact that it resembled a very wide, shallow sand pit, where the slightest movement threw dust up, up into the air, dancing a kind of limbo. The ground ran slick with red, red crimson blood and it seemed to heave under the weight of the bodies.

When the commander and the whole recruiting crew had knocked on the door, demanding that "Daniel Héderváry", her little brother, hardly fifteen, enter the army, naturally, she had told them that he was out and would be home in about fifteen minutes. Later, she had bound her chest and donned one of his larger clothes, introduced herself as her brother and followed them.

To be honest, she was surprised that she hadn't been found out yet. They didn't care much about it, just that they had enough people to fight the war.

It was probably a matter of time until they did, but for now, she had to - at least - survive.

Not that she wasn't a good fighter. No, she was one of the best, a lesser official, already taking down ten enemies herself. But they outnumbered them about twenty to one, and they were fighting tooth and claw just trying to live, numbers lessening by the second, slit through the throat, a hole blasted through them, wounds festering in the dust choked air.

And they were still pursuing them, under the gray sky of the battlefield, in the dust filled air, on the barren land that had once been fertile.

She stood, fending off the stray soldiers that had managed to get closer to them before the main army while retreating, yelling for them to _run, just run, dammit, _the green uniform covered with dust, a dark gray, like the sky above.

The younger Hungarians didn't look a day over seventeen, fear evident in their eyes, turning tail and running.

She couldn't blame them. It was daunting, after all, facing off someone who could easily kill you, or the thought of blood on their hands, or the smell of blood lingering in the air, coating everything.

So there she stood, protecting the youth army like she had her brother when his schoolmates tried to push him into the muddy river near the school where she couldn't go to.

She had to, as she was one of the leaders, and leaders were supposed to shield those under their care. She had to, because she couldn't just leave them to die. She had to, because couldn't stand there watching them try and fail to live.

It wasn't so much of a kindness. It was an instinct, one that protected and defended and fought, one that had steel in it, one that just didn't care anymore.

As she ducked bullets (somewhere along the way she had lost her headgear), she blocked and cut down another, coming at her, long sabre in hand, poised at her side, determined to run her through.

Oh no, she wouldn't want that. So she blocked it with the flat part of her blade, twisted and used the hilt to knock it out of his hand, then cut him open with one sweep.

Blood rained down, coating the ground with yet another splash of red.

Twelve. By now, most of her section had retreated, those who could run ran back, back, those who couldn't, slashes in legs, bleeding wounds, were safe, supported by their friends.

None left the dust covered ground, watching their second in command, silently pleading for _him_, to please come up, come back to safety, please, don't die here.

Something didn't feel right, somehow. Elizaveta was confused. Everyone was safe now, right?

So why did she feel so uneasy?

She should go... oh.

She was the only one in their sight, and the opposing commander had finally saw her.

She heard the click of a gun.

Bang, it went.

Someone screamed, in anger, in sadness.

She didn't quite feel it, when she was first hit.

It was just like an impact, like when she walked into a wall once. But after that, the pain became known to her, and it spread and spread and spread, like the blood on the gray uniform, turning it red, out and out and out.

She dropped to her knees. It hurt, hurt so much more than a stab wound, so much more when her father had hit her across the face.

She wondered, as her conscious frayed and faded, was this how they felt when they slowly, slowly died, the light leaving their eyes, stepping towards the inevitable chasm.

The blood ran out and out and out. Time seemed to stop, save for the blood pooling, red, red, crimson red, under her.

No one moved, no sound peaked, save for the quiet sobbing and her gasps of pain.

And as the enemy left, her section rushed to her side, picking her up, tending to the large gap in her, telling her to _hold on, hold on, _but she was somewhere far, far away now, barely hearing their words through the pain filled haze.

She was dreaming, of sinking, of falling, of drowning and pain. The throbbing in her chest did not relent, pulsing like a second heart, sending sharp jabs of pain into her.

And all of a sudden, it wasn't painful anymore. She could vaguely hear shouts, hear the shocked silence and dust settling.

And then she slept.

\--

Hungary had always thought of herself as a male, dressing and acting like one. His name was Daniel. Finding out she was female didn't really hinder her from beating up Prussia and Austria.

She had always been the reliable protective big sister. It was strange, a nation of war being protective over smaller nations. It was an instinct, one that protected and defended and fought, one that had steel in it.

\--

So I started this chapter with a great idea and motiavation (thanks AnimeAddicts7!), and then as the day progressed I kinda lost steam. But here you go!

I googled up "swords used in war", and apparently they were used up until WW1 (except for Japan), so this is probably set in the 1800s.

I don't have any ideas for Ukraine and Belarus (the rest, actually), so it would be greatly appreciated if you could send in suggestions, thank you!

AnimeAddicts7: Aww thanks! Maybe I could put them in. I might have to do some research, though.

Guest: Thanks! You're welcome :)

See you!


	20. Dry

**Ukraine: Dry**

Faint crying could be heard, carried by the slight wind that graced the land.

Katyusha didn't understand how they could still cry, how they still had the energy to. But then again, she was worse off than them before this.

She was lying on the hard cold ground, her spine pressing painfully against the ground that could practically be called ice, lungs barely drawing in enough air to survive.

Everything hurt. No, her stomach didn't, although she hadn't eaten for, what, a... month?

Food was scarce, the only being potatoes and those ran out a few months into the famine that everyone ate, drank and breathed.

It simply wouldn't do, to rely on Russia, but their land had been rendered infertile, dry and cracked after the War, later the Civil War, after the large, cracking, booming shells and rat-tat-tat of guns, the army that matched through the small village.

She had a family, even a lover that she was planning to be wed to before these started. She had imagined a wedding that most girls her age would have imagined - a simple barn, a plain white dress and their parents and sweet, sweet kisses.

That had fallen, however, when the War started in the July of 1914, the year before the day they had decided upon.

He was called to be in the army - all young, strong men were - and he never came back.

Fine, she decided. Fine. She would live without the love of her life, consumed by the sadness, but she would manage. After all, her little brother and sister had moved out already, settling down with a family.

So she found a small plot of land, and after using most of her savings to buy it, she lived there in a small cottage that she built herself with wooden planks and straw, planting potatoes - they were still plantable at the time - to eat and sell to the market.

Then not a few months after the War had ravaged the land, people began to fight amongst themselves.

She didn't understand why. Weren't people supposed to stand together as a nation? Why were they tearing themselves apart like that? Granted, it was Russia, but it did affect the people by the borders.

And then everyone was mad and confused and angry and crying, killing and beating, marching and screaming and shouting and then came what that really tore people apart, another war that happened between the same people, where everyone was an enemy.

She had lived through all that, when her mother and father were killed, when she couldn't get wind of her brother and sister, when all she had was the small cottage and potatoes.

It had ended as abruptly as it had started, and everyone that lived were left with shelled lands and shattered hearts and quiet, sighing voices, left with visions and sudden shattering and screaming by their ears.

The winter had been a lot more colder and drier that year, she had noted. Nothing too bad, considering the two wars they had been through in such short span of time - six and a half years in all. It seemed like evil continued after evil.

Then came spring, the season she loved most as the sprouts were just poking put of the ground and turning green.

But nothing had came. The spring, albeit a little warmer than winter, was cold and dry without a trace of ice or sleet or rain or even hail.

A few weeks more, but still nothing. She had been surviving on the crops of last year that was already in severe danger of running out.

People were worrying, informing their relatives in the city by letter and asking them to pass the message on to the higher-ups, but no help had came so far and they were starting to lose hope, instead opting for eating what they were supposed to be sowing, on the idea that if nothing grew, they should just conserve what they had.

A week more and supplies were starting to be sent in, people clamoring for _more _but those who operated it only sent in enough to not end up dead.

People were emaciated, the bones poking out of their skin, ribs visible through their thin coats and undershirt, arms and legs practically sticks.

When they had stopped sending in supplies, citing that they hadn't enough for everyone (though they were still quite filled-out), the farming village had resorted to killing and eating whatever they could, including their neighbours and children and parents and siblings.

She had retreated into the darkest corner of the hut when the day was bright, only coming out once she was sure that everyone was gone and there wasn't a risk of being dragged away. The dry ground pressed against her bony ankles and tailbone, the wooden walls against her spine that popped out.

Eventually, she - and most everyone else, apparently - had lost the energy to even move. The others were better off than her, having a family member not pinned down by the constant headaches and pain and general loss of energy to at least fetch water to drink.

She had no one.

She was so _cold. _The wind blowing in from the open door bit her cheeks, digging into her bones and blew her bony torso back, sending her back, rolling as it gently blew against her.

The ground pressed painfully against her bones, but she couldn't even summon up the energy to move just an inch over.

Her vision thinned out, black spots appearing and fading at the sides for a while, then she shivered violently, chilling herself more.

She could feel her consciousness fading in, out, in, out, before settling for a slow, slow descent into the nothingness that waited just behind her eyes, that she she swore she could see if she strained them (not that she could now). .

It wasn't quite terrifying as she had thought it would be when she was younger. In fact, she had accepted the slowing down of the heartbeat, the fraying of vision, the darkness that soon followed as a friend, a long-lost friend.

The wind picked up one more life.

\--

Ukraine was quite the agricultural nation. She sometimes could be seen carrying a pitchfork (America claimed that it was Lucifer's jokingly, only to receive a beating-up by Russia), and more often in the fields. Potatoes were the main crop as they grew in the most extreme of conditions.

She was quite motherly and a little cry-baby, trying to make friends in the EU and keeping connection with her siblings. She often got dragged into whatever shenanigans they had.

She was fine being on her own.

\--

pretends I didn't procrastinate for more than a week* Hello guys! Welcome back!

It's set in the Russian famine of 1921, if you don't know. I searched up "Ukraine famine" and it came up.

I don't have any ideas for Belarus now, so if you'd be so kind to leave a review and suggestion, I love you.

AnimeAddicts7: Ooh thanks! I hope I didn't let you down with this chapter!

See you!


End file.
